


at last, at last, at last, oh I thought you'd never ask

by elegantwings



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst and Feels, Arranged Marriage, Bathing/Washing, Canon-Typical Violence, Cunnilingus, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Family Issues, Gender Dysphoria, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Panic Attacks, Pen Pals, Self Confidence Issues, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Trans Jaskier | Dandelion, Triss and Yennefer put up with so much honestly, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, all off screen and not between the main ship, brief misgendering, in this house we love Yennefer of Vengeberg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:42:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23471143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegantwings/pseuds/elegantwings
Summary: Geralt is given firm instructions from Vesemir: He is to get married to a Redanian noblewoman in the hopes of improving relations between witchers and the rest of the world. Once the ceremony is over, he plans to drop his new spouse off at their new home and carry on with his life as he always has. Little does he know, his future wife is not a woman, and not so easily left behind. He's not really sure he'd like to get rid of Jaskier, either. Over the next several years, they learn to navigate their new relationship, first while Jaskier completes his degree, and then when Jaskier insists on accompanying him on the road. And no matter what anyone else has to say about it, Geralt is absolutely not in love with his husband.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 130
Kudos: 935
Collections: Fave Stories of Queixo, The Witcher Alternate Universes





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based on [this](https://www.reddit.com/r/relationships/comments/fmh7w1/how_can_i_29m_ask_my_husband_26m_of_9_months_to/) reddit post . The second I read the post, my brain went, Oh this is Jaskier and Geralt, absolutely. 
> 
> Title is from "At Last" by Jukebox the Ghost, my go-to band in these strange times. 
> 
> Please note I am trans myself and subscribe heavily to "your experience is not my experience". This absolutely does not fit into any kind of universal "trans" experience. That said, if anything is particularly triggering/upsetting please let me know and I can add tags for appropriateness. If you have anything negative to say, you know where you can put it. 
> 
> Jaskier is 17 in the beginning, and it is heavily implied he is sexually active before and after he meets Geralt. Any and all graphic sex happens between two consenting adults. 
> 
> There is brief misgendering in the beginning because when Geralt and Jaskier meet, Geralt believes he is a woman and is quickly set to rights and does not question it further. 
> 
> There will either be 5 or 6 chapters depending on how the end works out once it's been edited. Tags will also be added as chapters are added, and rating is for later sexual content.

The door shuts with a heavy finality. “We’ll just let you two get to know each other,” the Countess had said, ushering her reluctant husband out of the room along with her. A decision here had clearly already been made between the Count and Countess de Lettenhove and Vesemir whether Geralt liked it or not. Geralt had, as usual, made his displeasure known, but Vesemir had made his decision on the matter clear. 

He’d seen Geralt out of Kaer Morhen himself, making sure to emphasize how important this pairing would be for the future of himself and the rest of the Witchers. Times were changing, and Witchers weren’t held in the same fearful esteem as they once had been. They’d kept themselves too aloof from society, and now they were reaping the consequences. The public’s perception had to change, and fast, and what better way than to marry off one of their more eligible bachelors to one of the most up and coming young ladies of the court, all the better that she was beautiful, well-mannered, and graceful.

Juliana Agnieszka Pankratz de Lettenhove was also loud-mouthed, insolent, and had a penchant for running away. Geralt was also a little taken aback by her height, meeting him almost eye-to-eye, without the aid of any heels on her slippers. Of course, her back is turned to him right now, her shoulders hunched over and her head bowed forward as if she’s in pain.

Geralt is not entirely opposed to the idea of an arranged marriage, but doesn’t understand why he has to be the one roped into it. For one thing, women tend to fear him, intimidated by his height, or his muscles, or his face. They expect a certain roughness from him, and then they’re insulted by his disinterest. The other thing, more importantly, is that he is very, very gay.

He clears his throat. “Uh, are you okay?” he asks as gently as he can manage, still wincing a little at his own gruff tone. He hasn’t spoken to a woman of any standing in longer than he can remember, and now he’s had to remember his manners around two in one day. 

She doesn’t respond, but her shoulders are shaking, and Geralt realizes, terribly, that she’s sobbing silently into her hands. He tries again. “Juliana-”

As soon as her name leaves his lips, she’s whirling around with every ounce of that grace Geralt has heard so much about. Her dress flows almost mesmerizingly around her. And he can see, although her eyes are red and wet, and paint is smudged around her eyes and there are great damp tracks down her cheeks, she’s full of fury. “You!” she hisses, pointing a finger accusingly. “You do not call me that!” 

He holds his hands up peacefully. “Of course, my lady,” and she falls back as if struck by the honorific. “Viscountess?” he tries. 

To his horror, she buries her face in her arm and screams into it for the longest five seconds of Geralt’s life. He says absolutely nothing, afraid his next move will spell disaster. 

After a moment, though, she stands back up straight and pulls a handkerchief and a hand mirror out of nowhere, dabbing gently at her face. “I spent hours on this,” she mutters unhappily, before slipping both items back wherever they came from. Then she fixes Geralt again with a calmer look, more imposing. More befitting of her upbringing. “Two things,” she says, holding up two fingers. He notices her painted nails, then, sapphires glinting in the light that match her eyes.

“One, not a lady, two, not Juliana.” She sneers when she says the name, just barely. “If you must call me something, call me Jaskier, or nothing at all.” 

“Not a lady?” Geralt repeats, his mind whirring. Perhaps this was some kind of kidnapping plot, or worse. Something he’s far more equipped to handle. 

Juliana, no, Jaskier’s chin juts out definitely. “A man, in fact, whether my parents choose to acknowledge it or not. Sorry to disappoint you,” he says blithely, “But you won’t be getting married to a woman, or consummating that marriage with one either.” 

Geralt can feel his shoulders untense just a little. A man, he thinks. Thank fuck. He knows how to talk to a man. “I’ve never actually had sex with a woman,” he admits, one confession for another. 

Now it’s Jaskier’s turn to look confused. “Are you a virgin?” he asks incredulously.

“No,” Geralt says, not offended, but feeling like he maybe should be. “I’ve had plenty of sex. Just not with women.” 

Jaskier’s eyes seem to light up then. “Oh that’s good,” he says. “They’ve betrothed me to a gay man!” He starts to laugh then, a relieved and somewhat wild sound. It’s infectious, and Geralt can feel himself smiling despite himself. 

After a few moments, Jaskier calms himself, wiping gently at his eyes again with his handkerchief. “This might not be so terrible after all,” he says almost shyly, looking appraisingly at Geralt. He holds out his hand.

Geralt takes it, fears allayed in a way he hadn’t expected, and shakes it. Then he frowns slightly. “I don’t really believe in “consummation” unless all parties are enthusiastically involved.”

Jaskier nods solemnly. “I like the way you said “all” parties, and not two.” 

“All the rumors are true, aren’t they?” Geralt asks, realizing their hands are still joined but not quite able to do anything about it. 

“They very well are,” Jaskier confirms, moving his free hand to lift the edge of his skirts and beginning to curtsy. He freezes, eyes wide as he stares at Geralt. Then the spell is broken, and they let go, suddenly in fits of laughter again. 

“A do-over,” Jaskier says when they’ve calmed down. Then he bows deeply, with the ease of someone who’s made that move countless times. Geralt realizes he is impressed, and also, surprisingly, curious. Geralt can’t remember the last time he’d met someone new and wanted to know more about them. 

No one is more surprised than the Count and Countess de Lettenhove when they return. Geralt and Jaskier are still chatting together, although surely some time has passed. And actually, Jaskier is doing most of the chatting while he listens and occasionally adds in his own, small anecdote. 

“Hello Mother,” Jaskier says coolly, clearly ignoring his father completely. “I’ve decided I will marry Geralt.” 

The three of them look at Geralt expectantly, and Jaskier elbows Geralt, startlingly hard. He jerks forward just slightly, and clears his throat. “Okay?” he tries. 

To his relief, that’s enough, and they set the wedding for two week’s time. 

***

Two weeks is just long enough for Vesemir and Geralt’s brothers to make the trip from Kaer Morhan. In the meantime, Geralt is given his own rooms, and only a few instructions. Namely, he is to keep himself out of the way while preparations are made, and allow the court tailor to take his measurements. 

On the second day with nothing to do but wander through the gardens, Jaskier finds him. “I’ve convinced them we should get to know each other,” he says firmly, and thrusts a satchel into his arms. “We’re going riding.” 

He holds a gloved hand out imperiously for Geralt to take, but the sparkle in his eyes lets Geralt know he is still milking the situation for all it’s got. 

Geralt’s grateful to give Roach time to stretch her legs, and follows Jaskier down the trail. Jaskier is goading his horse just this side of too fast for the way he’s sitting aside the saddle, casting frequent looks behind them. Then when they approach the first gathering of trees, he slows down suddenly, jumping down from his horse and grabbing the satchel he had been careful to attach to his own saddle. “Back soon!” is all he says before disappearing behind the trees. 

Geralt waits patiently on Roach. A few moments later, Jaskier is back, wearing a pair of brown trousers and a loose-fitting white shirt. The satchel looks comically overfull now when he fixes it back to his saddle. 

“Won’t there be wrinkles?” Geral asks, worried about the trouble Jaskier might get himself into later, but Jaskier only shrugs.

“Haven’t cared for a long time,” he answers casually, as if they’re talking about something as simple as dirty clothes. He’s got a hairpin in his mouth while he fiddles with his shoulder-length chestnut hair (the shortest he could get away with without causing a scandal). After a few unsuccessful attempts at doing something with his hair, he sighs in frustration and spits out the pin. “Can I borrow your dagger? No don’t give me that look, I know you have one.” Jaskier holds his hand out impatiently. 

“No,” Geralt says firmly, and before Jaskier can protest, he says, “I’m not doing it and you’ll cut your ear off by mistake. I promise you, the first thing we’ll do when we leave here is go to a barber, someone who knows what they’re doing. A wedding present, “ he finishes without thinking.

Jaskier’s face lights up, dagger forgotten. “A wedding present! How sweet of you.” He swings himself up on his horse, sitting astride this time. If he looks at him from behind, Geralt can barely recognize him. “I’ll have to get you something as well,” he decides, and before Geralt can protest, darts forward and challenges him to a race.

***

A few nights later, Geralt is rinsing his face in a basin by his bed when he hears the door open and shut behind him. He has aard ready in the palm of his hand but he relaxes when he realizes it’s just Jaskier. 

“Do you like it?” Jaskier asks in a hushed voice, doing a little twirl and sketching a bow. “I have a friend, sneaks me in the latest fashions for a few coins. And what else do I even have an allowance for, anyway?” 

This time his trousers are turquoise, with a doublet to match. The doublet has silver droplets spattered around the shoulders, and silver buttons. The first two buttons are undone, showing the pale flesh underneath. His hair is presumably hidden under the hat in the same shade of turquoise, and Geralt realizes belatedly that if it weren’t for the telltale smell of citrus, and the familiar blue of his eyes, that he truly would not have recognized him. 

“You look good,” Geralt says, and means it. Geralt had noticed during the ride, and even more so now, how Jaskier’s shoulders hold almost no tension, how he smiles more easily, and seems to relax. 

Jaskier beams at him. “Thank you. Now, I believe I promised you a gift.” He pulls a lute from behind his back and straps it over his shoulders. “Won’t take no for an answer,” he says with a smirk. 

He launches into a ballad about a white wolf, peppering in little bits and pieces of the stories Geralt had been coaxed to share of the past few days. Geralt is impressed, again, and taken aback, not used to being not only listened to but heard. Then at the end of the song, the white wolf helps a fox escape from a hunter’s snare, and the two of them spend the rest of their days in close companionship.

“Did you like it?” Jaskier asks when he’s finished. Geralt doesn’t know what to say, and Jaskier says quickly, “A little on the nose, eh? Well,” he shrugs, “I’ve never played anything original for anyone who isn’t my nanny.” 

“You’re good,” Geralt blurts out, and Jaskier’s eyes widen in delight. “Really. You ought to play for more people.” The playing is good, but his voice? Geralt had never heard anything like it, raw, sending sparks down his spine. 

“There’s a lot of things I’d like to do,” Jaskier says, almost sadly, and lets himself out without another word.

Geralt realizes they will be doing a lot more than just visiting a barber when they leave this place. He finds he doesn’t mind, and reasons that they must be expected to take a honeymoon, anyway. 

***

The wedding is more of a big party than anything else. Geralt has been to parties before, as a bodyguard and occasionally a guest, but he’s not used to being the center of attention like this. Even when he’d finished the Trials and proven himself worthy as a Witcher, there had been a feast, but it was amongst his brothers, and he was so drunk he woke up naked the next morning in the yard. 

The wine and ale flow generously, and as much as Geralt wants desperately to get plastered this night as well, Vesemir’s stern face keeps him sober. At least the handfasting ends quickly, performed solemnly by Vesemir. The second the last words come out of his mouth, both the Count and Countess exhale together in relief. Geralt, who has been staring straight ahead the whole time, realizes suddenly, now there must be a kiss. The guests around them are silent, waiting. 

Geralt turns his head slowly, takes in Jaskier beside him. He looks equally uncomfortable, and Geralt can see the barely concealed dark circles underneath his slightly swollen eyes. Anyone else might miss it entirely, but not Geralt, and certainly not Vesemir or any other Witcher here. He hopes that his own eyes convey how very sorry he feels. 

Defiantly, after what feels like so many minutes but must only be seconds, Jaskier closes the distance and presses his warm lips against Geralt’s. This close, Geralt can’t help but smell Jaskier’s frustration and displeasure underneath his perfume, although he tries to ignore it. The kiss lasts just long enough for applause to break out, and then Vesemir is lifting them by their joined hands to stand. Geralt tries to look happy, or content even, but he catches the mournful look on Jaskier’s face as he touches two fingers to his own lips, and he can’t help the way his mouth twists into a frown.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one comes after them. 
> 
> Geralt hadn’t been particularly worried anyone would. He had fulfilled his duty at Vesemir’s request, and Jaskier’s parents seemed primarily interested in getting rid of him. He was officially Geralt’s problem now. Still, he lets Jaskier push them on past the first town and into the next one, further away from home and less likely anyone could recognize him. They’d cleaned up by the waterfall after they woke up, and now Jaskier is resplendent in the same turquoise double he wore when he’d snuck into Geralt’s room, the silver accents glinting in the sunlight. The first button is undone, baring just a glimpse of skin, stopping at the dip of his clavicle. 
> 
> “What do you want to do first?” Geralt asks him, once Roach is stabled in the inn. 
> 
> Jaskier shuffles his feet a little, pretending to pay attention to the cuff of his sleeves. “I believe I was promised a haircut?” he says with the smallest hint of hope in his voice.
> 
> “The barber it is,” he says, and thank fuck, Jaskier would finally take of that ridiculous hat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes a description of a panic attack, although it is not extremely descriptive. Jaskier also misgenders himself briefly. 
> 
> Figured out last night this will definitely be 5 chapters.

The banquet goes on for hours. There are endless gifts most of which will be immediately tossed into the sprawling house Vesemir had “given” Geralt and Jaskier. In truth, one of his brothers, Geralt couldn’t remember if it was Eskel or Coën, had been given the house as a reward for clearing out a particularly large kikimora infestation. Usually, they would sell such a thing or at the very least rent it out for the coin. It seems like such a waste to Geralt, who will spend most of his time as he always has, traveling the continent over for contracts.

It occurs to him belatedly, that Jaskier will be in want of a place to stay, that perhaps he doesn’t look forward to tagging along with Geralt. Although in truth, Geralt has not yet imagined what his strange new life will be like, and how Jaskier will become a part of it. He realizes that he’s been expecting Jaskier to disappear this entire time, probably assuming Geralt wouldn’t try to stop him or look for him. He is assuming correctly, and yet Geralt feels disappointed nonetheless. He doesn’t want to chain Jaskier to his side, or his life, but against his wildest expectations, they seem to have become if not friends, at least allies. Accomplices. 

He shakes off the feeling. 

Jaskier stands up so suddenly his chair scratches on the ground, and Geralt barely catches it before it tips over. “Excuse me!” he shouts, hitting a spoon against his delicate wine glass. “Everyone shut up! I’m the bride and I have something to tell you all!” Geralt is not surprised that Jaskier is slurring his words, even if only a little bit. 

The room quiets suddenly, uncomfortable. Jaskier’s mouth opens and closes a few times, and finally he drops the spoon to the table with a loud clatter. “I have two announcements,” he begins, and drains his glass. “One, you all have to call me Jaskier now, and two,” he holds up two fingers, and Geralt is suddenly reminded of the first time they’d met. “I’m enrolling in Oxenfurt. Geralt says I can do what I want, and if you don’t like it, you can take it up with him.” Then he sits back down, and drains Geralt’s glass, as well. 

Jaskier has not said a single thing to Geralt about any of his plans, not that he would announce his intentions this evening to their respective families, and not about Oxenfurt, either. Geralt can’t say he’s ever met someone more suited to the University. He makes sure to school his features into his most threatening glare, daring anyone to speak up. No one does, and tension drains out of Jaskier’s shoulders all at once. His smile, small and pleased, threatens to break Geralt’s composure. 

***

Of all the unpleasantries of this whole ordeal, Geralt has been the least concerned about the wedding night. It’s just the two of them now, no strangers, none of his well-meaning brothers to appear out of nowhere to clap him on the back and “congratulate” him. Just Geralt, his shirtsleeves rolled up, and Jaskier, fidgeting while Geralt undoes the laces of his dress. “All done,” he says after a few minutes. 

Jaskier is still holding the dress up. “Could you turn around, please?” he asks quietly. They’re centimeters apart, again, and Geralt can smell him, again, this time embarrassed. He turns around hastily, and busies himself with pouring a glass of ale. 

He turns around again when he hears Jaskier flop onto the bed, sighing with pleasure. “These are the good sheets.” Geralt sits on the other side of the bed, leaning in towards him. Jaskier rolls over and looks at him with glassy eyes, pupils dark. He’s wearing a black shirt, large and made of coarse material. 

“How’d you even get that?” Geralt asks flatly, recognizing his own shirt. 

Jaskier grins, eyes dancing. “I am very drunk,” he announces, and rolls back over onto his back. “You have a lot of catching up to do.” 

Geralt can’t argue with that, and he leans back against the pile of pillows and crosses his legs. They stay like that for a while, Geralt drinking, Jaskier humming on and off. 

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says suddenly, after he’s been quiet so long Geralt thought he fell asleep.

“What for?” Geralt asks carefully. 

“Lots of things. My parents, this wedding. What I said at dinner, using you like my guard dog.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” Jaskier says defensively. “But I’m not a child.”

“Hmm.” Geralt gets out of the bed and stretches a few times. “You don’t need a guard dog.” 

Jaskier huffs, and he gets out of bed, too. “You’re so kind to me.” he says from behind Geralt, sincere. 

When Geralt turns, they’re practically nose to nose. He squeezes Jaskier’s shoulder and steps back. “Do you want to get out of here?” 

“Gods, yes,” Jaskier groans, and together they sneak out to the stables. 

***

Jaskier is adept at sneaking around the grounds in the dark, even drunk, and between that and Geralt’s sharpened senses, they’re both on Roach’s back and on their way to the nearest village in no time. Jaskier is tense against Geralt’s chest, arms folded stiffly. He tries to look around once, but his nose bumps against Geralt’s cheek and he turns back around quickly. 

Finally, the landscape becomes less familiar to Geralt, blending into what he simply knows as “the Road”, winding towards the next settlement. The nearest village is a couple of hours out and they have no reason to rush, so he slows Roach down to a more gentle canter.

Instead of relaxing, maybe even dozing like Geralt expects, Jaskier seems to get more and more tense the further they go. His shoulders are practically at his ears, and Geralt can hear the slight hitch in his breath, and his scent flares for just a moment into pure fear. Geralt immediately twists around to check for danger, bandits perhaps, or someone coming after them, but he would have known the second they had company. It’s just the two of them, and Jaskier lets out a keening sob before burying his face in his hands.

Fuck, Geralt thinks, one hand looping around Jaskier’s waist to hold him upright and the other pulling Roach’s reins off the road. She follows even the most subtle of his directions even on the unfamiliar terrain, and before long they arrive at a waterfall surrounded by empty land. 

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier hiccups when they stop, hunching forward even further. His breaths are starting to get shorter, more shallow. 

Geralt jumps down first, and he simply lifts Jaskier off of the horse’s back. “Stand here, just a moment,” he instructs. When he turns away, he’s surprised to feel Jaskier’s fingers digging into his forearm. “I’m not going anywhere,” he tries to reassure him, but he doesn’t move his hand. 

Getting the bedroll spread out is harder than he anticipated, one-handed, but Jaskier is pliable, and he lets Geralt maneuver them both so that they’re sitting side by side. Then Geralt, gently, pries Jaskier’s fingers from his arm and rests his hand gently on the blanket. 

Jaskier lifts his head up and looks at Geralt through shining, wet eyes. The night is dark, but Geralt can see him clearly, and surely, his own eyes must glow. He doesn’t have the words for this, doesn’t know what he can say so that Jaskier knows he is safe now, and he’s free to do whatever his heart desires. Now, and for the rest of his life, so long as Geralt has any say in it. 

“I don’t want to go back,” Jaskier whispers, “And if this is a dream, or, or a trick, or not real I won’t be able to stand it.”

“It’s real,” Geralt swears, covering Jaskier’s hand with his own, and Jaskier nods, swiping roughly at his eyes with his hands. Then he surges forward and kisses him. 

Geralt cups Jaskier’s face and breaks the kiss as fast as it started, tilting his head down so he can kiss his forehead instead. “You should sleep,” he murmurs, leaning back. “You’re very drunk.” 

Jaskier looks like he might say something, might talk back, but then the fight goes out of him like a snuffed flame and he almost collapses. “Thank you.”

“No need.” Geralt moves them around so they’re side by side, Jaskier in the bedroll, Geralt on the grass. Geralt doesn’t intend to sleep, but the air is comfortably warm, and he’s had a lot to drink himself, so he does. 

***

No one comes after them. 

Geralt hadn’t been particularly worried anyone would. He had fulfilled his duty at Vesemir’s request, and Jaskier’s parents seemed primarily interested in getting rid of him. He was officially Geralt’s problem now. Still, he lets Jaskier push them on past the first town and into the next one, further away from home and less likely anyone could recognize him. They’d cleaned up by the waterfall after they woke up, and now Jaskier is resplendent in the same turquoise double he wore when he’d snuck into Geralt’s room, the silver accents glinting in the sunlight. The first button is undone, baring just a glimpse of skin, stopping at the dip of his clavicle. 

“What do you want to do first?” Geralt asks him, once Roach is stabled in the inn. 

Jaskier shuffles his feet a little, pretending to pay attention to the cuff of his sleeves. “I believe I was promised a haircut?” he says with the smallest hint of hope in his voice.

“The barber it is,” he says, and thank fuck, Jaskier would finally take of that ridiculous hat.

***

“I’m never wearing a hat again,” Jaskier declares when he gets a good look at himself in the mirror. His hair is styled in the latest fashion among the university students, and he keeps finger-combing his fringe until it's artfully tousled. The third time he pulls his hand mirror out of his pocket, Geralt threatens to drop it in the mud, but in truth he’s pleased at the other man’s satisfaction. Some small part of him thrills at the idea of making his husband happy, even if this marriage is something they’re more or less playacting. 

The hat is stuffed into Jaskier’s bag, hopefully never to be seen again. 

For the rest of the day, they just wander the village. Jaskier flirts with everyone he meets, blinking coyly from under his lashes, touching shoulders familiarly, laughing at just the right moments. He’s clever, coaxing a laugh out of a stranger moments after meeting them. Geralt knows then without a doubt that everything he’s heard about the Lettenhove heir really is true, that Jaskier is playing a game right now that he’s practiced many times before, and one he really enjoys if the sparkle in his eyes is anything to go by. 

Allegedly, Jaskier had convinced many suitors to run away with him before abandoning them. Somehow it kept happening, and even before the betrothal Geralt had heard many a tale of Jaskier’s jilted lovers. Part of the reason Vesemir had chosen him for this particular duty had been that he wouldn’t take offense or issue with his spouse’s reputation. In fact it was probably in his favor, the possibility that Jaskier would be plied with the opportunity to keep sleeping around. 

Geralt has to keep reminding himself that Jaskier is seventeen, no matter how maturely he seems to invite people in with just his eyes and the arc of his hips. Geralt finds himself guiding Jaskier away several times at the last moment before he could promise them any more than his affections. The back of Jaskier’s neck is warm under Geralt’s hand, his pulse fluttering near his palm, and it becomes simpler to just leave his hand where it was and move the younger man as necessary. To his surprise, Jaskier follows without complaint, although he does get distracted by several stalls in the market, handing over a seemingly endless flow of coins. He had a ridiculous amount of money saved away to begin with, originally for running away, and he’d been given to Geralt with a sizable dowry, as well. Most of it had translated into badly needed funds for Kaer Morhen, but Geralt had been given a share, and more from various wedding gifts. It could keep him and Roach going for months. With Jaskier, it would last them maybe a week at the rate he was going. 

By the time the sun is setting, he’s got a polished silver stud in one ear, several new rings, and a lip stain just barely darker than his own pink lips. There’s also a new wine colored doublet and breeches in his bag, and several chemises with delicately scalloped collars. Geralt had also made sure he replaced his boots with a pair of sturdier ones, made for riding and traveling, smelling of fresh leather. Jaskier had been picking his way carefully around the ground since they’d gotten those, completely defeating the purpose. 

The inn is quiet when they enter, and most of them widen their eyes when they see Geralt, but no one says anything. When the innkeeper asks if they want two beds, Jaskier drapes himself over Geralt’s side and sighs, “We’re newlyweds,” and gets them a discount on the largest room. The woman only looks slightly suspicious of Geralt. 

“Thank you darling,” Jaskier practically purrs, and Geralt can’t believe he’s flirting with a middle aged woman he’s just convinced to give him and his husband a good deal. It’s working though, alarmingly well, so Geralt holds Jaskier in place even as they walk towards a booth.

“Wait a moment, please,” the innkeeper says suddenly. “Is that a lute?” Jaskier freezes suddenly. “Haven’t had any entertainment around here lately,” she says hopefully, “I know you’re having a special time, but…”

Jaskier looks straight ahead, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. When he doesn’t respond after a moment, Geralt leans in and says quietly, “You should. If you want to.”

All of his earlier confidence has disappeared. “But they’ll know, Geralt,” he whispers urgently. 

Geralt squeezes his hand. “I’m your husband, and if they don’t like it, they can take it up with me.” 

Jaskier nods once, making a decision. Then he twirls around and in the same motion, swings his lute forward. “My lady, I would be honored.”

Truthfully, Jaskier is nervous, and his voice starts off too low and hesitant, almost lost under the sound of his instrument. He’s playing something Geralt has heard many times around the Continent, ordinary, but then he locks eyes with Geralt, and becomes anything but. His voice grows more confident, and he even moves in time to the music, but his eyes never leave Geralt’s. The rest of the patrons seem satisfied with his performance, and some even drop a few coins off into his startled hands when he’s finished. 

“Most people don’t care about you any more than what’s in their dinner,” Geralt says, gesturing to the bowls in front of them. 

Jaskier pouts and slumps into his hand on the table. “You don’t think they liked it.”

Geralt exhales and closes his eyes for a moment. “You aren’t listening. They paid you, Jaskier, of course they liked it.” 

A small smile breaks out across Jaskier’s face. “They did, didn’t they. Maybe this is my calling, traveling on the road from inn to inn, entertaining the masses. Oh!” he laughs, “I could be your barker! Part of this whole thing was improving the public opinion, right?”

The idea of keeping Jaskier in check on the Path doesn’t seem like a terrible idea, but. “Didn’t you want to go to school?” 

“Yes, but,” he hesitates, “I wasn’t actually sure if you’d take me there.” 

“I didn’t think you’d want to keep a house for me,” he shrugs, “I have no interest in keeping you against your will.” 

“No,” Jaskier agrees, “I suppose you’ve made that clear. I guess, I thought you might just leave me here, and be done with it.” 

For every tale of Jaskier’s conquests, there’s one to match that tells of the cold and unfeeling Geralt of Rivia. 

“I was wrong though,” Jaskier continues sincerely, “You showed me that last night.”

“I’ll take you wherever you need to go,” Geralt says gruffly and starts to eat the stew. 

Their room for the night is absurdly large, but there’s a bath in the corner and the bed is big enough he could comfortably share with at least one of his brothers. Jaskier is so lithe compared to them, he doesn’t even bother to offer to sleep on the floor. Jaskier won’t hesitate to volunteer the information if he’s uncomfortable, but after he soaks in the bath for far too long, he slips on another one of Geralt’s shirts and climbs into the bed. He’s facing the wall, giving Geralt the same privacy he’d requested himself. Geralt doesn’t much care for social mores, but the gesture is kind, all the same. “Good night Geralt,” he kind of slurs, low enough that a human might have missed it, and falls into an exhausted sleep.

The bath is lukewarm and smells overwhelmingly of oranges. Of course Jaskier would leave home with nothing but his favorite outfits and perfumes. A simple spell heats the water to a more acceptable temperature, and he lets himself enjoy a luxurious bath. The last couple of weeks as a kept man had spoiled him, for this at least, and he’ll miss it once Jaskier and his extravagances are gone. 

***

The academy sprawls across Oxenfurt, and Geralt is reminded almost immediately why he avoids this area as often as he can. For one thing, there’s enough people in the heart of the city that most monsters steer clear of bothering them. And most of these people are so young, practically children, with no obligation any more important than studying. They talk about things like clothes, and literature, and none of it is practical or logical. 

Jaskier is, of course, in his element. Geralt finds himself giving him most of what’s left of their coin, and not minding the loss terribly. There’s a part of him looking forward to picking up some new contracts, and to the solitude of his constant travels. 

Another, much smaller, part of himself worries at how Jaskier will fare on his own, and it doesn’t surprise him as much as it should. But Jaskier offers to write in a few weeks, and he seems to mean it, even though Geralt is certain he’ll forget. He should forget about Geralt, and their marriage, and live his life on his own terms for a change. 

It is strange though, to wake up alone for the first time in weeks, with no one to complain about being up before the sun’s risen. Roach even seems unsettled by the absence, although it’s probably the lack of secret apples and sugar cubes Geralt pretended not to notice. But this is the way things should be, he reasons, and it’s more than he expected when he’d first agreed to Vesemir’s plans. So he does not wonder if Jaskier is settling well, if he’s been accepted, if he’s been performing, if he has people he can rely on and trust. And he especially doesn’t wonder if Jaskier is happy, and staying put, or if he’s snuck off again, or worse, if he’s still there, and miserable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please visit me to yell into the void on [twitter](https://twitter.com/tentaclebowtie)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter comes, and Geralt travels to Kaer Morhen. His brothers don’t expect him to come at all, much less alone, and he doesn’t expect the healthy stack of letters waiting for his arrival. Geralt’s received plenty of invitations, and demands, but he doesn’t think he’s ever received even one casual letter like this, written purely for leisure. Jaskier’s handwriting is as looping and curling as his personality, and he spares no details about his comings and goings. Geralt can’t help but skim some of it, never expecting to need any of this information, and it still takes him almost half a day to get through all of it. By the time he’s finished, he can tell that Jaskier is fitting into his life like a glove. Then Geralt finds himself writing a reply, although it only takes up half a page.
> 
> A few weeks later, there’s a bird and another letter, and a request for ‘maybe a little more detail? Something he could turn into a song?’ and they go back and forth like that until the last snows melt and Geralt leaves the calm of the Keep once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably my favorite chapter.
> 
> You don't want to know how much time I spent staring at maps trying to determine where things are on the continent in relation to one another. Directions and maps are NOT my thing. I also completely invented how university works in this particular universe. Just go with it.

Winter comes, and Geralt travels to Kaer Morhen. His brothers don’t expect him to come at all, much less alone, and he doesn’t expect the healthy stack of letters waiting for his arrival. Geralt’s received plenty of invitations, and demands, but he doesn’t think he’s ever received even one casual letter like this, written purely for leisure. Jaskier’s handwriting is as looping and curling as his personality, and he spares no details about his comings and goings. Geralt can’t help but skim some of it, never expecting to need any of this information, and it still takes him almost half a day to get through all of it. By the time he’s finished, he can tell that Jaskier is fitting into his life like a glove. Then Geralt finds himself writing a reply, although it only takes up half a page.

A few weeks later, there’s a bird and another letter, and a request for ‘maybe a little more detail? Something he could turn into a song?’ and they go back and forth like that until the last snows melt and Geralt leaves the calm of the Keep once more. 

He realizes that even if he won’t receive any of Jaskier’s letters, he can still send his own, and there’s no reason not to. Every so often he scribbles off a brief summary of the latest creature he’s killed and sends it, and he’s rewarded finally the evening he hears an upbeat, surprisingly filthy drinking song pass through a tavern. He overhears some people talking about how it came out of Oxenfurt, from an up and coming lute player with a talent for talking his way into people’s beds. Geralt feels a tension leave him that he didn’t even realize he was carrying. 

‘Heard your song tonight,’ he writes, and worries too long over what else to say before sending just that one line. 

Before long it is summer, and Geralt crosses paths with mages. Since his dealings with Stregebor, since Blavikan, Geralt has made a conscious effort to stay clear of mages and all of their ethically convoluted business, but he suddenly has no choice. There’s a curse running rampant in Guleta, making monsters of men, and there doesn’t seem to be a cure. Triss and Yennefer are desperately attempting to stop the curse from spreading, while Geralt is dispatching the unfortunate victims. Finally, they succeed, and the curse is lifted, and Geralt decides they are worthy associates, and consents to join them in a victory toast that evening. 

When Yennefer and Triss both, together, invite him to celebrate in a more physical way, he says dryly, “I’m a married man.” It’s meant to be a joke, sort of, because it’s not like he’s been celibate or anything of the sort, but it’s clearly the wrong course of action. Where most women have been offended by the rejection, they both immediately turn curious, coaxing him to spill details about his husband. Even when he explains the situation. 

“How long’s it been since you’ve seen him?” Triss asks him gently. 

He tries to remember. “Almost a year, perhaps longer?” When she pats his arm in sympathy, he frowns. “I’m not in love with him, he’s barely seen eighteen years.” 

“Of course not,” Triss agrees, still patting his arm vexingly. 

Yennefer only looks at him appraisingly, and he feels a familiar tickling at the back of his neck. “I know you’re reading my mind,” he says flatly, scowling. 

“Not much to read,” Yennefer says with a half shrug. Then, firm, “You did a good thing for him.” 

He answers her with a nod, and decides, for no particular reason, that next he will pay a visit to Oxenfurt. 

***

Of course, his best laid plans are as always, thrown to the wayside. Contracts go on for too long, people want to reward him, or more often, they chase him out of town, and there’s always someone with some problem that must be solved instantly. 

Then suddenly the first frost appears one morning, and he feels the deep, ragged call in his bones to go to Kaer Morhen. He can spend about a week in Oxenfurt and still make it to the Keep before the road’s too dangerous for Roach, and he doesn’t even really have the need to spend a full week anyway. He only needs to stay long enough to say hello, see for himself that Jaskier is well and in need of nothing, and then he can be on his way. 

It’s pure coincidence that Jaskier is right there inside the city gates when Geralt arrives. He’s sitting on a bench, wrapped in a deep blue cloak, reciting poetry to a half circle of young women. He speaks each line to a different one, holding their gaze with such sincerity that Geralt thinks, impossibly, that he must be in love with each one of them. Then Jaskier sees he has a new audience member, and when he realizes it’s Geralt, he drops his book. “Geralt!” he exclaims, jumping up and throwing his arms around his neck. “You should have told me you were coming!”

“Hmmm,” Geralt says, instead of admitting that it hadn’t occurred to him to send word ahead of his arrival. 

“Ladies,” Jaskier says, slipping an arm around Geralt’s waist, “This is my husband!” 

All at once they start to gasp amongst themselves, and one of them says, “The White Wolf!” in an awed whisper. 

“White Wolf?” Geralt repeats, and Jaskier laughs nervously. 

“No need to worry about that! Lots of catching up to do!” He apologizes theatrically to the women, promising to finish their reading at another time, and guides Geralt away. “Why did you come visit?” he asks, and Geralt notices the hint of nerves as they walk. 

Geralt doesn’t really have an answer, so he ignores the question. “Where are we going?” 

“My humble abode,” Jaskier says, and then, “It’s just, did my parents send you?” 

“Wouldn’t have come if they did.” He follows Jaskier into a house and then up the stairs, into a messy bedroom. There’s clothes all over the floor, books in stacks, several crumpled up pieces of paper that haven’t made it yet to the garbage. Jaskier grabs a suspiciously phallic shaped item from the nightstand and drops it into an open drawer, shutting it with his foot. 

“Uh, welcome,” Jaskier says, spreading his arms wide. “Not much, but there’s no one on my case about curfews or decency or what have you.” There’s also a pile of letters on the nightstand, Geralt realizes, that Jaskier hasn’t bothered to put away. “I suppose you haven’t been to Kaer Mohren yet,” Jaskier says when he notices. “I’m still sending them. Especially since, well, you know, Yennefer, and-”

“Yennefer?” Geralt repeats with raised eyebrows, “How do you know Yennefer?”

Now Jaskier looks puzzled. “She said you sent her?” he says. “Although, I suppose the potions she’s giving me could have some nefarious purpose, but they’re doing the job, and I feel fine. At least I think I do?”

“Jaskier, stop,” Geralt rubs his forehead. “You’re taking potions that a strange witch gave you?”

“Well she wasn’t strange, was she, if I thought you sent her.” And then to make matters even more confusing, Jaskier starts unbuttoning his doublet. “At first I thought it was crossing a bit of a line, you telling her about me, you know, but then I realized, you obviously knew what you were doing, and you wouldn’t do something to try and hurt me. Of course, now I know you didn’t send her, so I’m really wondering how she knew, and why she’s doing this for me.” After his doublet’s gone, he pulls off his chemise as well. There’s dark hair covering his chest, fading into a trail that leads down his taut belly and disappears into his trousers. He traces a finger under one flat pectoral, a move that seems unconscious but familiar. 

He can’t be more than nineteen, Geralt reminds himself, although he probably knows what he looks like if his behavior around his fan club was any indication. And now that Geralt is paying attention, he can see the firmer lines of his jaw that have little to do with his age, his cheekbones are sharper, and there’s the barest hint of a five o’clock shadow on his chin. Someone without Geralt’s sight might not have even noticed at all. 

“You look good,” he says uncomfortably, because it doesn’t feel quite right to say even though it's true, and it makes Jaskier beam with happiness. “I think I did send her, accidentally.”

“Accidentally?” Jaskier asks. Instead of putting his clothes back on, he sits on the bed and leans backwards. Showing off.

“She read my mind when I met her, must have seen things beyond what I told her.”

“Ah, so you did tell her about me, you scoundrel,” Jaskier smiles, pleased. 

Geralt nods. 

“Well!” Jaskier says when the silence spreads uncomfortably. “We should get something to eat!” And then he gets dressed again, finally. 

***

Snow comes early, and unexpectedly, and Geralt does not make it back to the road with enough time to safely make it to Kaer Morhen, and somehow Jaskier manages to convince him to spend the winter in Oxenfurt. It’s near the end of the term, a few weeks away from Samhain, and Geralt feels as bored and trapped as he did when he’d first arrived in Lettenhove over a year ago. It’s strange to feel useless, to spend all of his time re-sharpening his swords or rubbing down Roach for the thousandth time, and then during the night, following Jaskier to party after endless party. Over the span of two weeks, he thinks he sees Jaskier sleep twice, passed out over the notebooks on his desk long after Geralt had fallen asleep. Both times, he hadn’t even stirred when Geralt picked him up and settled him in the bed. 

Of course, once the exams are over, Jaskier still doesn’t sleep, a bundle of anxious nerves while he awaits his results. “As long as I beat Marx,” he says over and over, as if it's a competition, although Geralt reasons, maybe it is. When he’d been declared the most responsive initiate to the mutagens, all those years ago, Geralt had felt like he was winning something, too, before he’d known the consequences. 

The results are posted the morning of Samhain. Jaskier places first, and Geralt feels something unfamiliar, something he realizes is pride, deep and content in his chest. “Never doubted myself,” he lies to Geralt. 

“Will you sleep now?” Geralt asks, exasperated. 

Jaskier looks astonished. “It’s Samhain,” he says, as if Geralt is somehow unaware, “I can sleep when I’m dead.”

The evening’s festivities conclude with a giant bonfire on the shore. Half of the attendees have brought instruments, including Jaskier, and they play and sing together, passing around demijohns of clear alcohol. Geralt has learned that Jaskier will introduce him to everyone as his husband, and they all seem to be in on the joke, because it hasn’t actually stopped anyone from allowing him to tempt them with his soft lips and his melodic voice. His voice is deeper, Geralt realizes, with a different cadence now when he sings, and Geralt is still astonished by the depth of emotion in his voice that belies his years.

The bonfire burns down, and partiers pair off or wander home, until it’s Jaskier and Geralt, and a few others scattered around. “Don’t you want to find someone to spend the night?” Geralt asks finally, although he’s enjoying Jaskier’s strumming despite himself.

“Nope,” Jaskier says with a sharp “p”, slurring. He’s been drinking steadily for hours, although he doesn’t seem to notice that Geralt has taken his drink away. “Holidays should be spent with your family,” he declares, patting Geralt’s leg, “Even if your family is a big, scary Witcher.” He rolls his head towards Geralt and grins. Then he yawns, jaw-cracking and huge. “I’m shattered,” he sighs, letting the lute fall into his lap and leaning back on his elbows.

“Rooms not far,” Geralt says, but he also leans back until his head hits his hands pillowed beneath him. 

“Could sleep out here,” Jaskier suggests, reaching for the cloak Geralt had abandoned a little while ago and wrapping it around himself. “Gonna get sand everywhere, though,” he says as he settles on his side, facing Geralt. “You are my family, you know,” he says softly.

Geralt doesn’t know, and doesn’t know how to feel about it either, so he closes his eyes, and wraps an arm around Jaskier to drag him close, letting him curl up into his side. “Better not get sick on me,” he mutters. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jaskier sighs, fading into sleep.

*** 

When Jaskier finally falls into bed the next morning, he’s out again immediately, leaving Geralt, once again, to figure out how to pass another endless, empty day. It’s tempting to get into the bed as well and indulge in a few hours of sleep, but it somehow feels more intimate than when they’ve lain together outside, so instead he tries to meditate, hoping to quiet his mind.

He just catches himself from sighing in relief at the knock on the door. Jaskier doesn’t stir, so Geralt hesitantly opens it, surprised to find Yennefer on the other side. “What are you doing here?” they both ask at the same time, and then Geralt looks pointedly at bed before letting her in. “Oh please,” she rolls her eyes, “He’s not coming out of that until he needs to piss or eat, and probably not even then.” It’s possible she rolls her eyes even harder when she sees his look of concern. “I was a student once, you know, and I’m pretty sure you were, as well.” 

He can’t argue with that. 

She clears a space on his desk and starts emptying her seemingly endless pockets, several bottles of the same dark liquid. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here,” she says, doing a terrible job of acting nonchalant. 

He isn’t in the mood for games. “You told him I sent you. Let him think I broke his trust.”

She nods slightly. “You can’t deny I helped him.”

“Mages don’t do anything for free,” he counters. 

“Neither do Witchers,” she eyes him sharply, “And we both know how true those rumors are.” She softens and looks at Jaskier. “He reminds me of someone, someone who’s life was saved with these potions.” She catches his look. “Not me, though it’s not really your business.” 

He doesn’t press further. “I got stuck when a blizzard passed a few weeks ago, and then it was too late to take the journey home.” 

“I can get you and your horse there,” she offers, seemingly past the tension between them. “Call it a thank you, for giving me the opportunity to do this for him.” 

He nods. “I’ll get my things together-”

She laughs at him, then. “You really are a bit thick, aren’t you?” She shakes her head. “At least give the poor boy a chance to say goodbye.”

Jaskier’s voice echoes in his head, “You are my family, you know.” Yennefer is right, and he knows she can tell. 

“In two days at midday,” she decides, and sees herself out of the room.

***

Two days later at midday, Geralt and Jaskier are standing together by the stables. Jaskier is wrapped up in his cloak, hands drawn up under his chin, eyes bleary. Yennefer had been right, he’s barely been awake for two days, and now he keeps yawning, and blinking tiredly. 

Yennefer isn’t late yet, but she’s cutting it close. Jaskier keeps shuffling over a few centimeters at a time. Shuffle, yawn, blink, shuffle, until finally Geralt just holds his arm out expectantly. Jaskier immediately snuggles into his shoulder. One of his hands comes out of the cloak and finds Geralt’s, pressing it into his hip. He raises his head a moment, flashing a smile at a young man about his age who passes by, before sighing and leaning all of his weight on Geralt. “You’re so warm,” he says, muffled into Geralt’s shoulder. 

“How many lovers do you have?” Geralt asks, afraid of the answer. The young man had waved shyly at Jaskier, blushing, almost embarrassed when he’d seen them. Guilty. 

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” Jaskier says with laughter, which Geralt takes to mean that he isn’t sure of the number. “Probably should let Nicholasz know my husband isn’t going to kill him.” 

Geralt nods slightly and hums. 

Geralt is starting to wonder if Yennefer is playing a joke on him when Jaskier speaks up again, quietly. “Sorry you got stuck here. I know it’s not really your thing, but it was good to see you.” Then he pauses and realizes, “You never did tell me what you were doing here.” 

Geralt sighs. “I passed by on my way to Kaer Morhen, and decided to check in.” Oxenfurt is on the way to Kaer Morhen in the sense that it’s a several days' ride to the left of the fastest route, but Geralt doesn’t think Jaskier knows much of geography. 

Jaskier apparently knows enough to know he’s not exactly telling the truth. “If you don’t tell me, I’m going to assume it’s some sort of top-secret Witchery business.” He hesitates. “Was this some kind of test?” Geralt waits. “Y’know. To see if I was good enough for you to let me stay.” 

“Is that why you study so hard?” Geralt asks, concerned with the revelation.

“No,” Jaskier says emphatically, “I did it to beat Marx. But the other thing helped.” 

Geralt takes a deep breath and then looks down at Jaskier. “Despite what happened, your life is your life, Jaskier. It’s not my place to say what you do with it.” 

Jaskier threads their fingers together over his hip and looks up, eyes shining with unshed tears and something else Geralt can’t quite name as he moves forward hesitantly. 

Yennefer shows up at that moment, and Geralt can tell by the barest twitch of her lips that she absolutely does it on purpose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not find a way to work it into the story in a way that felt natural, so: the potions Yennefer provide Jaskier function as the magical equivalent of top surgery and testosterone, and work better/are needed less often the longer he uses them. Given what Yennefer has to go through for a permanent transformation, it didn't make sense for Jaskier to go through anything more permanent/for Yennefer to be able to do that for him without extreme consequences. I don't think she'd be willing to do it at any rate, and may not even tell him if it's possible. 
> 
> please visit me to yell into the void on [twitter](https://twitter.com/tentaclebowtie)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s called avante-garde,” Jaskier is saying too loudly, emphatically waving his arms around, “And it’s not my fault these plebeians wouldn’t know taste if it accidentally wound up in their food.” Geralt just barely stops himself from snorting. It serves Jaskier right, since he decided he was going to become a traveling bard without actually having any idea what that meant. “Oh, don’t give me that look,” Jaskier waves him off, “You’d have known where I was going if you ever checked your mail. Besides which, I thought you didn’t much care what I was doing. Whatever happened to, “your life is your life, Jaskier.” His impression of Geralt is wholly inaccurate. 
> 
> “I don’t care,” Geralt starts, and is interrupted by a small stone that hits him between the eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and most important, thank you everyone for the comments and kudos! I am overwhelmed in the best way. 
> 
> Did Jaskier graduate or get bored?? Who knows. 
> 
> Here comes the angst, baybee. 
> 
> One more chapter after this. Thanks for taking this journey with me and stay safe out there!

Another year passes in the blink of any eye. Geralt doesn’t pay much attention to the passage of time or the seasons, but he can’t help but notice when Roach begins to protest the dropping temperatures. He intends on visiting Jaskier again before Samhain, but this time, misfortune is with him in a different direction, and he ends up so delayed it’s days since the spring term has started when he arrives. 

The woman who answers Jaskier’s door tells Geralt that Jaskier is gone, graduated maybe? But a new group of students have moved in, no he did not say where he was going. Over the next couple of days, he tries to get more information out of the locals but he doesn’t get much more than “gone” or “graduated”, even from the ones he’d seen following Jaskier around like ducklings. (They do assure him that Jaskier finished first in his class). 

So Jaskier has left, alone, “to make a name for himself,” or something of the like. Geralt wants to shake him by the shoulders and remind him that his songs have been playing in taverns for miles for years now, and maybe stay put and safe where Geralt can find him later. Of course, Geralt can say none of this to him, and he’s not even sure if Jaskier has the proper clothes to travel in.

***

Geralt should know that destiny would not smile on him favorably enough to find Jaskier too quickly, leaving it more and more difficult for him to ignore his growing worries. Geralt should also have known that when they do finally meet, Jaskier will immediately ruin his desire to keep a low profile. 

Geralt has a million things he wants to ask while they walk towards the fields outside of Posada. Out of irritation he’s refused to let Jaskier ride Roach and instead they’re side by side beside her. And Geralt can tell, there really is bread in his godsforsaken pants. 

“It’s called avante-garde,” Jaskier is saying too loudly, emphatically waving his arms around, “And it’s not my fault these plebeians wouldn’t know taste if it accidentally wound up in their food.” Geralt just barely stops himself from snorting. It serves Jaskier right, since he decided he was going to become a traveling bard without actually having any idea what that meant. “Oh, don’t give me that look,” Jaskier waves him off, “You’d have known where I was going if you ever checked your mail. Besides which, I thought you didn’t much care what I was doing. Whatever happened to, “your life is your life, Jaskier.” His impression of Geralt is wholly inaccurate. 

“I don’t care,” Geralt starts, and is interrupted by a small stone that hits him between the eyes. 

***

Later, after they’re nearly both killed, Jaskier keeps looking at his new lute like he’s afraid to play it. It doesn’t shut him up though, and he keeps going on and on about what his life has been like since they’d last met, and then jumping over to what it was like with the elves, and then jumping back to ask what kind of things Geralt’s been doing. As if he expects any answer other than “killing monsters,” or that sometimes Roach needs new horseshoes. 

When he does play, singing the new song as he writes it, he sounds like himself again, and Geralt is relieved that Jaskier hasn’t lost confidence in his talents

Even later than that, Jaskier will curl up on the bed Geralt had ordered, and insist that there’s room enough for the both of them. Geralt will discover that Jaskier is absolutely a bed hog, and just as much of an octopus whether they were exposed to the elements or not. But for now, Jaskier is giving the pretense of staying on his own side. “It didn’t feel the same, alone,” he admits, and when Geralt doesn’t say anything, he continues. “Music. I kept thinking, there’s no point if no one wants to really listen to you, not really. But people are going to listen to this one, I’m sure of it.” 

Geralt doesn’t want anyone to listen to it, because it’s about him, and White Wolf won’t just be something Yennefer teases him with when they cross paths. 

They don’t argue again, but Jaskier stays with him the next day, and the one after that, and keeps staying, until it’s been long enough that even Geralt has to admit he isn’t planning on leaving. 

***  
Traveling with Jaskier turns out to be incredibly different than traveling alone, and somehow exactly the same. There’s noise now, constant noise, talking, singing, lute-playing. Sometimes Geralt has to threaten Jaskier to stop him humming for the fourth or fifth time in a row, and then when Jaskier finally listens, Geralt can’t stand the absence. Certainly he’d been loud as long as Geralt knew him, but there’s always been something else, more pressing, to subdue him. Now they have nothing but time, and Jaskier is confident now, cocksure. 

Jaskier fights back when an alderman tries to short Geralt, and it works, and from then on there’s really no stopping him. Even though it costs more in food than Geralt’s ever spent, he’s never seen an influx of coins like this, neverending. And almost every night, Jaskier is performing and making money that way, too. He’s doing things like earning them an extra night for free, or a discount on all their meals, and he always makes sure there’s a bath for Geralt, especially if it’s a particularly difficult hunt. 

Jaskier is also fragile, though, in a way Geralt had anticipated. More than once, Geralt has caught him sneaking too close to a fight for comfort, poorly hidden in the landscape. Jaskier has learned how to scrub out reluctant bloodstains from his favorite clothes. Most of those times those bloodstains are from a creature, or from Geralt, but sometimes, they’re his own. And he complains vigorously about: the sun, the lack of sun, the rain, the mud, unseasoned meat, sleeping on rocks, washing in the river. Sometimes Geralt has to focus on the sounds of the nearest creature, be it deer or fly, to tune him out properly. 

Then there’s the moments Geralt hates the most, when something is truly wrong with him. He’d sprained his ankle terribly, trying to get away from a nekker, and he has a scar now above his knee where a bandit’s blade had come too close. 

He gets laid up for days after falling into a patch of wildflowers Geralt had never paid attention to before. It’s hard not to pay attention now, when their pollen causes little pink welts to break out all over Jaskier’s exposed skin, and he sneezes so many times he can’t seem to catch his breath. They’re close to a river and not much else, and all Geralt can think to do is pick him up and wade them both in and strip Jaskier right there, tossing his soaking clothes onto the shore. He strips him down to his smallclothes, and Jaskier is breathing again, finally, shaking in Geralt’s arms. For two days he insists on resting his voice, and it concerns Geralt more than a little that he doesn’t speak at all, not even to complain about the few hives that still linger. 

And of course, there are his potions. Yennefer had given him a little statue of a bird and he could write her a letter and stick it in the tiny open beak, and shortly thereafter, a little glass bottle would be nestled between it’s solid feet. Jaskier does explain that he doesn’t have to write her a letter every time, but he likes to do it, and every time it takes longer and longer before he has to write to her again. 

One day, Jaskier is organizing his pack and pauses. “Oh, hello,” he says from his seat on the bed. “Never seen it do this before.” He holds up the little bird, and its beak is holding a small envelope. He pulls it out and glances at the front. “Oh, it’s for you?” 

Fuck, Geralt thinks, of course Yennefer would figure out they were together eventually. He’s surprised to find the letter is from Triss instead, explaining the matter of a striga, of King Foltest’s indiscretion, and a witcher who has made off with the coin meant as a reward. He doesn’t bother to write back, but on the way to the Temerian border, Geralt catches Jaskier slipping a piece of paper into the bird’s mouth.

***

Jaskier doesn’t stop arguing until Geralt threatens to get a potion from Triss to knock him out. “You’re really serious about this, aren't you,” he asks before flopping theatrically onto the mattress. “I suppose I shall just waste away here, waiting for your return.”

Geralt doesn’t bother mentioning he’s always serious when he says it’s too dangerous for Jaskier to follow him, or that he’s confident Jaskier will find something to do to pass the time. He checks his pack again, making sure it contains only what's essential, and swings it over his shoulder. “I’ll be back in a week,” he says, and ignores the way Jaskier waves him out the door. It’s at least another half day’s walk to see Foltest, and he’s hoping he will find out that the striga is really a vukodlak and he can kill it and be on his way. Kings pay like shit. 

He knows subduing a striga will be difficult, maybe the most difficult thing he’s ever done, but knowing doesn’t make it any easier to endure. The ache of sleeping in the stone coffin, the strange hollowed out feeling he gets when the potion wears off, it’s nothing compared to the ragged bite from too-human teeth, the feeling of his own blood spilling between his fingers. 

He’s not quite all awake when he hears low voices nearby. He hadn’t expected to survive, long since knowing what it felt like when he’d been yanked out from death’s grasp while his body worked overtime to make new blood and new skin. It’s best to stay still and let the potions and mutations do their work. It helps that he’s inclined to wait it out. 

The voices are only a hum at first, gradually solidifying themselves into Triss and Jaskier. He can’t quite make out what they’re saying at first, and minutes or hours may pass. Every once in a while the Jaskier sounding murmur gets closer, and somehow softer, and he can feel the blankets shift, or fingers in his hair. He lets himself enjoy the feeling because he will never have to admit it, but he can remember it, later. 

“He’s waking up,” he hears Triss say after a while, past the point he’s started to hear bits of their conversation. He’s not sure if his heartbeat has fooled her, or more likely, she wanted him to rest. 

Jaskier is by his side instantly, taking up his hand and holding it tight. “Welcome back,” he says softly with a half smile. There are dark circles under his eyes and he smells like salt, and sweat, and relief. Geralt wonders how long he’s been awake. 

“The striga?” he asks, closing his eyes. 

He opens them right away when Jaskier drops his hand and frowns. “Oh the striga!” he exclaims, putting his hands on his hips, “She’s a princess again, if that’s what you’re asking, and she’ll be fine, more than, no thanks to anyone but you.” 

“Jaskier,” Triss warns, but Geralt swings up into a sitting position. 

“Foltest owes me,” he says, starting to look around the room for his things. 

Jaskier shoves a purse into his chest. “You’re welcome,” he says tartly and walks out of the room. 

Geralt looks between the purse in his hands and Triss. “What just happened?” 

Triss just shakes her head. “Yennefer was right, you are quite thick sometimes.” He decides to ignore her completely to gather his things instead. After a moment she exhales loudly, “Well aren’t you going to go talk to him?” 

Geralt freezes. “Should I?”

Triss sits heavily into a chair. “Melitele, save me from men. Yes, you should, unless you want to leave his feelings hurt.” 

“His feelings are hurt?” Geralt asks, but Triss looks like she might get up and force him out the door, so he goes. 

Jaskier has his lute, because of course he does, and he’s playing something fast and complicated, sitting on the half-wall outside. When he sees Geralt he doesn’t falter, and his eyes are dark and cool. Geralt leans on the wall beside him, and waits, letting the melody twist a trail around them. 

“When I was a boy,” Jaskier says when he’s finished, resting the lute on the grass, “my parents wanted me to learn all sorts of things you’d teach a proper lady, and they promised me music lessons if I behaved. And I thought, ``As long as I can play, and sing, I’ll never want for anything else.”’ His mouth twists. “Things that were wrong about me, clothes I didn’t want to wear, the bloody hair, none of it mattered.” He bites his lower lip, worrying it for a moment. “I was wrong.”

Geralt hums, and waits.  
“One of these jobs is going to kill you, Geralt,” he says, his voice cracking. “And I’m too young to be a widow.” The joke does little to hide his anxiety. 

“You’re right,” Geralt says evenly, “One day something is going to get lucky and kill me first.” Jaskier makes a small noise of irritation, hastily rubbing at his eyes, and Geralt tries not to notice. “Someone has to do this, and it’s better me than some untrained farmer.” 

“But it’s not fair,” Jaskier hisses, and buries his face into Geralt’s thigh, holding him tightly. Geralt strokes his hair gently, and thinks about how strange it is, that someone cares what happens to him, and unable to figure out why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please visit me to yell into the void on [twitter](https://twitter.com/tentaclebowtie)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt closes his eyes. “This is our house,” he says, and braces for the response. 
> 
> Jaskier almost chokes a little. “Our house? As in our Witcher Wedding Gift House?” He walks up to the door, peering at the handle. “I bet you thought someone would be taking care of it all this time.” The lock is definitely broken, and he opens it slightly, and almost gags. “No thank you! Not sure what’s in there, but I’m not up for joining them.” 
> 
> Geralt sighs. “It can be fixed.” 
> 
> “Settling down?” Jaskier asks absently, cupping his hand over his eyes and looking in the window despite his protests. “Wait.” He turns around and walks the few steps back to Geralt, eyes dark. “You’re trying to get rid of me. No, don’t try and deny it,” he says before Geralt can answer, “You think we should split up.” The double meaning is clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! Thank you again for the wonderful comments and kudos. There is a little bit of angst here too, but we all deserve something nice in these trying times, so rest assured it will all end well. 
> 
> There is explicit sex in this chapter, and I have adjusted the tags accordingly. Jaskier is briefly self-conscious about his body, and there will be two discussions about his various insecurities as well as Geralt's. 
> 
> As for the ending...well. I realized I couldn't really end it any other way, now could I ;)

Geralt makes a decision, and guides them next towards the mountains. They stop in the outskirts of Ard Carraigh, in front of a house that’s more an overgrown yard than anything else. One of the windows is broken, and Geralt is sure that if he tries the door, he will find that broken as well.

“If you’re planning to kill me and hide the body, here’s the place,” Jaskier says lightly. “Some sort of nest of terrible beasties in there, waiting to meet their end at the tip of your sword?” There’s a note of sourness in his voice now, when the subject of Geralt and his work comes up, and for the first time since Geralt’s known him, he seems to be holding his tongue. It’s been like this since they left Temeria behind. He still sings, and flirts, and can talk for hours without saying a single thing. His voice is clear and his heartbeat steady, and he still doesn’t blink when Geralt storms in, eyes black, soaked in entrails. But the sourness lingers, in the way he keeps his hands to himself, and stares into the fire at night before climbing into his bedroll. The nights are cool, although it’s not quite fall, but Jaskier keeps to himself more often than not. 

Geralt closes his eyes. “This is our house,” he says, and braces for the response. 

Jaskier almost chokes a little. “Our house? As in our Witcher Wedding Gift House?” He walks up to the door, peering at the handle. “I bet you thought someone would be taking care of it all this time.” The lock is definitely broken, and he opens it slightly, and almost gags. “No thank you! Not sure what’s in there, but I’m not up for joining them.” 

Geralt sighs. “It can be fixed.” 

“Settling down?” Jaskier asks absently, cupping his hand over his eyes and looking in the window despite his protests. “Wait.” He turns around and walks the few steps back to Geralt, eyes dark. “You’re trying to get rid of me. No, don’t try and deny it,” he says before Geralt can answer, “You think we should split up.” The double meaning is clear. 

“Jaskier,” he says, frustrated, “Don’t put words in my mouth.” 

“Then say some fucking words, Geralt!” Jaskier cries, throwing his hands up. “I know I’m right, but I don’t know what I did to offend you! Tell me, was it that time I ripped my very favorite doublet in half to staunch your bleeding, or perhaps that time I made sure King bloody Foltest didn’t cheat you out of your well-earned reward?” The mention of Foltest stings, a sharp reminder. 

“All of your doublets are your favorite,” Geralt mutters before he can stop himself. 

“Well, good on you for paying a bit of attention.” He shakes his head. “I thought we were friends, Geralt.” 

The problem is, of course, that Geralt does not want to be friends with Jaskier. It must show on his face, because Jaskier looks stricken for a moment, his fingers twitching uselessly at his sides. Then he’s fisting both hands into Geralt’s collar and yanking him close, and for one wild second, Geralt thinks that he’s going to headbutt him, and then Jaskier is kissing him, and Geralt is kissing him back.

It wasn’t the night after the striga, when he woke to the feeling of Jaskier’s hands in his hair, and it wasn’t quite so soon as when he’d first locked eyes with Jaskier’s own. Perhaps it was the night of the wedding, when Jaskier had commanded the attention of the entire room, or perhaps it was simply when he realized how easy it was to make him happy. But no matter when it had started, Geralt hadn’t known it, not until Jaskier had said, “It’s not fair,” and wept as if the very idea that Geralt might be gone would break him. 

There’s no place in a Witcher’s life for love, but it wasn’t supposed to matter. Geralt was never worried he was going to fall in love. He hadn’t guessed what would happen with Jaskier, and they needed to part ways now before it was too late to turn back. 

But Jaskier is kissing him, twisting his hands around his neck and into his hair, and Geralt’s lips part to let him in. The calloused tips of his fingers brush against the back of his neck, and Geralt can’t help but grasp Jaskier by the hips although he can’t tell if he’s trying to still him or move him closer. The smallest hint of a moan escapes Jaskier’s lips and he pulls back, and looks at him. “Fuck,” he gasps, “Fucking finally.” 

Geralt should let him go now, but he sounds so pleased, and yearning, that Geralt kisses him again, and again, until they’re breathless. 

“I’m not fucking you in that house,” Jaskier half laughs against his mouth, leaning back to catch his breath. “I’ve been waiting far too long.” His eyes flash beneath his lashes, a look Geralt’s seen dozens of times, but never directed at him. 

Geralt frowns. “Waiting?” 

“You can’t possibly think I kissed you just to shut you up? Oh, Geralt,” his cheeks pink, “I’ve been terribly obvious.” 

“Obvious,” Geralt repeats. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier laughs, almost hysterical. Geralt has no idea what he’s talking about, and his confusion only causes him to laugh again, disbelieving. “Surely you’re the only person in the world who couldn’t tell that I’m absolutely in love with you.” 

Geralt shakes his head, because that absolutely can not and should not be true. “I took away your choice, Jaskier. Duty be damned, I should have stopped it.” 

“Dear man,” Jaskier says softly, caressing his cheek, “You gave me my life, and you expected nothing for it in return. How could I not love you?” 

“You deserve better than me,” Geralt almost whispers, because he can’t bear to speak louder. 

“As long as I have music, and you, I’ll want for nothing else,” Jaskier swears, and closes the distance between them with his lips. 

***

They decide to leave the house behind. Jaskier fidgets, first seated in front of Geralt on Roach, and every time he accidentally brushes against Geralt it feels like little licks of fire. First Geralt threatens to throw him off, and Jaskier stills for a moment, and Geralt thinks he’s finally listened for once. Then he rolls his hips backwards, agonizingly slow to keep from losing his balance. 

Geralt stops immediately and makes Jaskier switch spots with him, and then it’s even worse when Jaskier’s hand comes to rest on his waistband, finger and thumb tucked inside. Geralt has to hold his hand in place for the rest of the way.

Inside the city walls, Geralt steers Roach towards one of the nicer inns, and leaves Jaskier to get a room while he continues on to the stables. He takes longer rubbing down Roach than he might otherwise, using the time to steady himself. When he’d set out this morning, he had every intention of convincing Jaskier to stay in once place, safe, where he would never again have to see the life Geralt must live. Now, he thinks he has done the opposite, committing him to his side forever. Realizing that Jaskier would never consent to being left behind.

It shouldn’t surprise him that Jaskier gets them the biggest room at half the price. Geralt should also not be surprised that there’s already a bath drawn, and Jaskier is opening various oils and salts, sniffing them and tipping them gently into the bath. 

“Your face’ll freeze like that,” Jaskier comments without turning around. “It may have taken us five years to get here, but by gods we are not smelling like the great outdoors.” He turns around and folds his arms across his chest. “Well, strip! Get on with it.” His lips turn up in a teasing smile. “Five years, Geralt.” 

Geralt does as he’s told. By now Jaskier has seen him fully nude a thousand times, over dozens of baths, or because his clothes have been shredded, or simply because Geralt has at most two sets of clothes and both are dirty. He’d been quick to dispel any concerns for propriety or privacy Jaskier may have had as wholly unnecessary, and still, most of the time Jaskier would politely stay focused on Geralt’s face or whatever part of him was bleeding that day. Now he looks, leaning his elbow on the bath, watching as Geralt removes one layer after another and submerges himself. A bead of sweat drips down his temple and his hand clenches around the bottle he’s forgotten he’s holding. 

The bath smells like citrus, familiar, more subtle now that Jaskier has the benefit of better taste and more coin to spend on it, but it still smells like Jaskier. The smell of the first light of morning, when his nose is buried in the back of Jaskier’s neck, where it mingles with salt and skin.

Geralt expects that Jaskier will fuss around him in the bath, coaxing him to wash his hair and then wash it again, wheedling him that the water will go cold before he’s clean. As if Geralt can’t just heat it right back up. So he closes his eyes and rests his head against the back of the tub, selfishly hoping for more time to understand what’s happened between them. 

Geralt does not expect to hear the soft rustle of undressing, clothes hitting the floor. He hesitates to open his eyes, until Jaskier clears his throat. “Uh, you can look,” he says, shy but resolute, and so Geralt opens his eyes. “I know it’s not what you’re expecting.”

His skin is pale, though not as pale as Geralt’s, covered in dark hair, and Geralt doesn’t have to touch him to know how soft he must feel. There are few scars, and his ribs are just shy of too prominent. Geralt hadn’t been expecting anything, but to say he was disappointed would be an utter lie. 

Jaskier sighs into the silence, and he seems to shrink into himself as he looks pointedly at the wall. “You told me, the day we met, you’d never had sex with a woman.” His hand twitches near his pubic bone, as if he has to stop himself from covering his sex. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and feels foolish, having this conversation in the bath, so he gets out and stands in front of Jaskier, cupping his cheek. “Jaskier,” he says firmly, “ I know you’re not a woman.” 

“Fuck, I know,” Jaskier says as he exhales a breath held too long, tension gone. A few stray tears fall down his cheeks. Geralt thumbs them away. “I’m not ashamed,” Jaskier insists, meeting his eyes. “I don’t want you to pity me, or act like it’s a big deal. I’ve had my whole life to get used to this body, and I quite like it, the way it is now.” 

Geralt knows what it’s like to be seen the wrong way, the look in a stranger’s eye that says they’ve decided everything there is to know about you before you’ve even said a word. “I like it, too,” he says, and strokes his hand down Jaskier’s side to hover just in front of Jaskier’s own.

“You can touch me,” Jaskier whispers. It’s all the permission Geralt needs. He drops to his knees, ignoring the flare of pain as he lands, and grasps Jaskier by the hips just shy of bruisingly tight. “Geralt,” Jaskier gasps, almost laughing. “What are you - oh,” his words turn into a moan as Geralt presses his nose into his pubic hair and inhales. He smells like himself and then some, like pure need, and Geralt is helpless to give in and taste him. It isn’t hard to hold Jaskier up as he trembles, as his knees threaten to give when Geralt’s tongue swirls around his clit, when two fingers just rub, gently, at his opening. 

“Goddess you are good at this,” Jaskier breathes, his hand fisting into Geralt’s neck. “I didn’t think,” he starts, and then his voice breaks into a whine. Geralt hums into his cunt, urging him to continue making those sweet noises. Jaskier, of course, takes it as an invitation to speak, praising him, urging him on. Saying things that Geralt would never consent to hear from another person. Instead of wanting to flee, those words light a flame inside of him, one he never realized had been waiting so long to ignite. 

Jaskier shifts his hips down, seeking Geralt’s fingers, and as the tips press in he chants, “Yes, yes,” and Geralt fingers him, laving his clit with is tongue, stroking his velvet-smooth inner walls and reveling in the way they clench. Jaskier rides his hand, and his mouth, until he comes, and Geralt laps at the flood.

Jaskier leans both of his arms on Geralt’s shoulders, thighs trembling. “I think my legs are broken,” he laughs, and then squeeks as Geralt lifts him off his feet and deposits him in the bath. “You’re a terrible brute,” he says with no heat, tugging at Geralt until he climbs in with him. 

Geralt makes to clean his face but Jaskier is still tugging at him, until they’re kissing again, Jaskier moaning into his mouth. “Insatiable,” Geralt murmurs. 

“Too right,” Jaskier agrees, starting to stroke Geralt’s cock in counterpoint to their movements. “I’ve heard the White Wolf never spends less than three days in a brothel, is that true?” 

Geralt growls, because Jaskier is absolutely teasing him and absolutely knows the answer. “I’ve taken longer,” he admits, because he knows it will make Jaskier’s breath stutter as he melts against him. 

The bath has been filled for a reason, and Jaskier’s lotions and soaps are right there, so Geralt reaches for the closest bar and dips it into the water. It has the faintest smell of rose, light enough that he can detect it but it won’t clash with any of the other scents. “That’s expensive, you uncultured swine,” Jaskier protests, but allows him to lather and rub it into his skin. “By all means, don’t stop,” he breathes, taking the soap when Geralt is finished with it and using it to wipe him down. It feels almost like every other time he’s allowed Jaskier to do this, except now Jaskier is not shy about touching every part of him. He strokes over his abs, and over the shell of his ears, and over the curve of his ass and the inside of his thighs. 

“Gorgeous,” Jaskier says absently as he moves. 

Geralt decides that he’s been patient enough, and captures Jaskier’s mouth again for a kiss. “Your hair!” Jaskier tries to protest, but his cock has been surviving on the barest hints of touch for long enough. He reasons they’ll need another bath later anyway, and catches Jaskier’s hands between his own as he kisses him. Jaskier allows himself to be convinced. 

The soap goes somewhere outside the bath to be dealt with at a later time. Jaskier’s hand on his cock feels practiced and sure but Geralt wants more than this, if Jaskier will allow him. So he backs them both against the edge of the tub and sits, pulling Jaskier into his lap. It doesn’t take much coaxing then, to turn him around even as they kiss, until Jaskier is leaning backwards to kiss him, knees bent, cunt hovering just above Geralt’s cock. “Do I have to beg?” Jaskier asks, and no, Geralt thinks, he does not, and lifts his hips to meet Jaskier’s downward thrust. 

Jaskier moves so slowly at first, and he is soaking wet, clutching around Geralt’s cock as he sinks down. He seems to savor each centimeter, until he is fully seated, head thrown back against Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt splays a hand across his chest, feeling the echo of his wild heartbeat, holding him close, waiting. Jaskier rolls his hips once, water splashing against their hips, and moans, and does it again. 

After a while, maybe minutes, maybe longer, Geralt can’t take it anymore and he wraps an arm around his waist and starts to move him in time with his thrusts. Jaskier starts to nod rabbit-fast, babbling more nonsense, more praise. He’s playing with his clit, and Geralt covers his hand, feeling the way he pleasures himself until he’s confident enough to move Jaskier’s hand and replace it with his own. 

“Will you come again?” Geralt asks, feeling Jaskier’s nails dig into his thighs. 

“Yes, fuck yes,” Jaskier whines, “Please,” and his cunt pulses around Geralt’s cock, his back bowed. His eyes are squeezed shut and his face pressed against Geralt’s neck, his gasps growing more and more high-pitched and desperate as Geralt fucks him through his orgasm and into his own. 

“Again?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier’s whole body shakes, grinding down to meet Geralt’s still-hard cock. Geralt stays still this time, letting Jaskier ride him torturously slow. He turns himself in Geralt’s lap, and he guides Geralt back inside of him. He wraps his arms around Geralt’s neck, and presses their foreheads together, and Geralt loses track of how many times he asks and Jaskier responds until he can’t hold on anymore and gives in to the whiteness at the edge of his vision.

Later, Jaskier insists on wearing one of Geralt’s shirts, and it’s so much like any other night that Geralt feels like a fool for taking this long to see what was right in front of him. 

“I think I could go again,” Jaskier says, almost idly, his voice hoarse. 

Geralt indulges himself a second to think about sinking back into that tight heat, and then shakes his head. “Be quiet,” he instructs instead, and extinguishes the oil lamp before getting into bed beside him. 

Jaskier, of course, ignores him, rolling around so they are face to face, although surely his eyes haven’t adjusted yet. “Geralt?” he asks tentatively, softly. 

He hesitates for only a moment. “Yes?”

“I would marry you. For real, if you wanted.”

He means to say yes, or, if you’d like, but instead he says, “I love you,” and realizes how dearly he means it. 

Jaskier smiles so happily. “That’s settled, then. Because I am very much in love with you.” And when they kiss, Geralt can’t find it in himself to be annoyed with his traitorous mouth. 

***

In the morning, Geralt wakes and finds that Jaskier has for once woken first, laying on his back and staring at the ceiling. He can’t help but think that Jaskier has finally come to his senses, and he rolls over onto his side, and waits.

“Good morning,” Jaskier says, smiling brightly. It’s not quite false, but there’s something troubling him. “Sleep well? I always sleep amazing, with you.” Geralt nods, because although he hadn’t realized it before, it’s true for him as well. “Need another bath,” he says, and Geralt nods again. Finally Jaskier groans and thumps the bed with his fist. “Geralt! I proposed to you last night, and we’re just going to act like nothing happened?” 

Geralt frowns. “Something happened.” The evidence of it is clear enough, the room still smelling faintly of sex. 

“No, I mean,” Jaskier groans and looks up at the ceiling again. “I’m trying to say, are you sure? I mean, really, are you sure? You really don’t mind being stuck with me?” 

Geralt can’t help the frustrated sigh that escapes him, dozens of words reeling through his mind and none of them coming together how he wants. And the longer he says nothing, the more agitated Jaskier will get, and the more assumptions he will make. So instead he kisses him, hoping that it will work as well as when Jaskier did it the first time, yesterday.

Jaskier melts into him, kissing him back, before pulling back and putting a hand between them. “Geralt. While that is wonderful, truly, I really need you to use your words here. Please, try. For me.”

“Damn it,” he mutters, and steels himself. “I’m not stuck with you.”

“Good start,” Jaskier prompts, petting him idly. It feels ridiculous, and also very good. 

“You have your whole life ahead of you,” he says, “That’s why I wanted you to stay behind. Somewhere safe.” For once, Jaskier is the one who remains silent. “You’re stuck with me. You’ve been, for years, and if this is where you want to be, I’d be a fool to try and chase you away.”

“Oh Geralt,” Jaskier laughs, “You know why I never wanted you to see me undressed? Not because I thought you would mock me, but because I couldn’t bear it if you found me wanting.” 

“Jaskier,” he says dryly, “There’s a reason I don’t carry a hand-mirror in my pocket.” 

“You mean because you’re the prime example of what a man should look like?” 

“Stop saying that,” Geralt says firmly, “You look how you look, and I want you.” He looks pointedly between them. “Despite what you think, most do not find me such a prime example of what a man should look like.” 

Jaskier blushes then, and ducks his head. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

Geralt tips his chin up and looks him in the eyes. “Don’t be.”

“Will you say it again?” Jaskier asks, shyly. 

“I love you,” Geralt says, because it’s too late to try not to.

“I love you too,” Jaskier says with a grin so wide like he can’t help himself, and kisses him. And then, finally, there is nothing more to say. 

***

Their second wedding day dawns clear and warm, and Geralt is reasonably certain Yennefer has something to do with that. He’d left the planning to Jaskier, who roped Triss and Yennefer into it, and that’s how they ended up each wearing a delicate crown of buttercups and dandelions. Roach is wearing one, too. Triss insists this is a custom where she is from, although Geralt doesn’t really believe her. 

Geralt has not been asked, and if he was asked, he’d probably only bare his teeth, but in truth he finds that he doesn’t much mind it. Not when Jasier is so very happy, the blue of his eyes enhanced by the blue of his doublet, and he might as well be actually glowing. Not when Jaskier’s hand is so warm in his own where they’re held together by cloth, and he’s jittery, like he might just climb out of his skin. 

Geralt woke this morning like many mornings, in a bed not on his own, with Jaskier’s mouth around his cock. Neither of them cared that it was technically one of Yennefer and Triss’s rooms, and they are borrowing it. Yennefer has also assured them many times that the rooms are soundproofed. 

When he’d tried to coax Jaskier on his back, Jaskier had smirked and said, “Na-uh, it’s our wedding night,” as if they hadn’t fucked often and creatively, for weeks now. Last night, even, and yesterday morning. Geralt has barely seen him in the few days since they’ve arrived, because he’s been off planning secret things with Triss. Things like flower crowns, and the ridiculous fitted trousers Geralt had been told in no uncertain terms he had to wear. He doesn’t much mind the trousers, either, not when Jaskier grabs his ass and squeezes, nodding approvingly. 

Yennefer and Triss have this little hideaway in the woods together, a house that’s much bigger inside than it is out, with adjoining land for miles. It is perhaps not technically their land, but no one bothers them for it. Today it’s just the four of them, and Roach. Triss is their officiant, and Yennefer is their witness, and it is simple, and exactly right. 

Geralt does not miss the calculating look Yennefer gives them, and Triss, and assumes (correctly) that they will be here again, soon, although their roles will be slightly re-arranged. 

Geralt can’t stare anywhere but into Jaskier’s eyes, this time around, and the moment the last words leave Triss’s lips, he and Jaskier both meet at the same moment for a chaste kiss. Jaskier turns it filthy almost immediately, using his free hand to dip Geralt backwards. Geralt can’t see it, but he’s distinctly certain that Yennefer is the one whistling while Triss claps. 

“I love you,” Jaskier says against his lips, and Geralt wonders how long they will be allowed to use their borrowed rooms as a honeymoon suite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please visit me to yell into the void on [twitter](https://twitter.com/tentaclebowtie)

**Author's Note:**

> please visit me to yell into the void on [twitter](https://twitter.com/tentaclebowtie)


End file.
